


Lonely is a ring on a cold coffee cup

by babble_bee



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cat BB-8, Coffee Shops, Coffeeshop AU, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff, Mild Angst, Rivals to Lovers, Soft Ben Solo, Some hurt/comfort, Tea House, banter as flirting, bonding over shared loneliness, flower shop, mentions of childhood neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23830315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babble_bee/pseuds/babble_bee
Summary: She'd never seen his face before.She'd certainly seen him before, but only as long as it had been this miserably frigid winter, so he'd always been covered head-to-toe, looking like some cloaked incarnation of Death—perhaps dramatic for a man who just ran a neighboring coffeehouse, but she had a good imagination, and the day could be long at the flowershop.He looked young. She certainly hadn't imagined young.Rey works at a local flower and tea shop. Ben owns the neighboring coffeehouse. A fluffcentric modern au.Rating may go up.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	1. If it weren't for second chances

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this started out as a cute one-shot, then got long. As you do.
> 
> Title comes from: https://youtu.be/1JYTlukDPQM 
> 
> “One day,  
> the snow of your heart will melt,  
> making space for hope.  
> Be patient”  
> -Alexandra Vasiliu

The very first thing she noticed about him were his eyes. The second were his lips.

She'd never seen his face before.

His hair was _fluffy_ (whose hair was fluffy after taking off a hood?). His pale features were accentuated against the dark everything else he was framed in, odd combinations of sharp and soft, but it all struck in such a boyish uncertainty.

He looked _young._ She certainly hadn't imagined young.

When Finn spoke of his old boss and his closed-off, grumpy disposition, she'd pictured a decrepit old man with a wrinkled permanent snarl, wavy a bony finger at disposable henchman who _definitely_ did not get paid enough for this.

She'd certainly _seen_ him before, but only as long as it had been this miserably frigid winter, so he'd always been covered head-to-toe, sweeping around like a stalking black shadow. A massive shadow. His gloves and hood and black coat always reminded her of some cloaked incarnation of Death—perhaps dramatic for a man who just ran a neighboring coffeehouse, but she had a good imagination, and the day could be long at the flowershop.

But the season was changing, and the world was beginning to thaw. His usual hood had been laid back, and the scarf normally over his face was absent, and she was still standing completely dumbstruck in slushy half-melted sidewalk snow, just...

...staring.

He must have finally felt the pair of eyes boring into him, because he paused, key in outstretched hand just held hovering, and turned his head.

She blinked. _Good imagination_ alright—or cold-induced hallucinations—because when their eyes met she almost thought he looked just as stunned as she felt.

He was so tall he had to hunch his whole frame over to reach the lock. But caught in the stare, he began to slowly straight his spine back to full height, as if compelled to rise somehow. It was dark in the early morning hours, but the planes of his face seemed almost illuminated, smoothed as his lips slowly parted as if caught in awe at some amazing sight.

Which didn't make sense, because in this empty street, there was only her.

As if dropped back down to earth, a niggling sense of self-awareness prodded into her mind. She remembered her hand, where it still lay paused and forgotten on the brass handle while she oggled at the competition's owner.

Storefront. His coffeehouse. Right. The one with the ridiculous name—The First Order—and even dumber tagline, plastered across the brick building's front window like a garish scar. She felt her brow knit as she remembered just who he was and what her friend had told her about him, and whatever the moment was that just transpired was abruptly broken. She scowled at him and yanked the door open, feeling a twinge of rueful satisfaction when she heard the wooden sign slam back against the window from the force of her ire, the sign that read, in elaborate gold font:

_Pièce de Résistance_

_flower and tea shop_

She strode in through rows of displayed flowers and arrangements, breathing deeply the lightly perfumed air and letting the welcome warmth seep in through her limbs, chasing out the lingering chill. Doors were unlocked and lights were already flicked on, but she ran a quick check all the same as she passed through the establishment's newer garden-decorated seating area.

Despite the earliness, she wasn't the first one to arrive. That honor was reserved for the particular individual she sought as she entered the backrooms, chasing a different sweet smell.

“Whatever it is, it smells _so_ good, ” Rey said to announce her presence in the stainless-steel clad kitchen.

Finn gave her one of his signature wide smiles, his hands still working independently on his creations, “It's something new I'm trying out. Maz suggested it, for the event next week.”

Another event arranged by Poe, always hustling and fronting the ambitious ideas. He was how this flowershop had expanded into the tea room realm in the first place.

Rey peeked into the commercial oven, where a tray of sugar-dusted triangles were beginning to turn golden.

“My nose says yes. What are they?”

“Lemon lavender scones,” Finn answered, stirring a container of blueberries into some batter, “You know, thematic.”

“Sure,” she smiled gracefully, which then turned sly, “Need the help of your favorite taste tester?”

He gave a chuckle, “Of course. But,” he lifted a spoon to point, “you're behind Rose. She called dibs first.”

Rey turned in the direction he pointed, where the shorter girl was unpacking stacks of uncut flowers on the opposite counter.

“Morning, Rey,” Rose smiled at her, “Want to help me with arranging these?”

Mid-morning rolled around as they worked. Rey felt the newly familiar feeling alight in her chest, a gentle glow like a candle, of happiness. Contentment to be around friends, in an environment of color and smells of sweetness and spice, working on their respective tasks.

She and Rose prepped and sorted the multi-colored variety of flowers, and Rey listened attentively as Rose instructed her how (“You have to cut the stems under running water,” she'd said in her soft voice, barely audible over the sound of the basin sink, “and cut on a bias, like this. They last longer that way.”)

Rose then held up a bunch of the red blooms that were separated from the rest, “These aren't really sellable,” she gave Rey a knowing smile, “Think you could find use for them?”

Rey nodded, and Rose set the flowers off to the side so she could pick them up later.

Maybe it was unintended side effect from her childhood, but Rey hated seeing things thrown away, things that in her eyes, still were perfectly good and useful. Her friends had noticed this, and so it became the unspoken arrangement. Flowers that were going off? Rey would happily take them home to light up her little apartment. Leftover baked goods at the end of the day that would otherwise get binned? Finn would bag them up for her (and Finn's confections were a highlight to her whole week).

Admiring her still-good flowers— _nightblossoms_ , Rose said they were called—she thought nothing could snuff out that happy glow in her.

But later, as they all stood leaning against counters, nibbling on warm scones, she felt a weight drop in her stomach. The scones were delicious, and buttery and lovely, but as she watched Finn and Rose converse closely with each other, she began to think that maybe... maybe the candle burned a little lower.

It felt silly. And petty. She was friends with both of them, right? But they weren't taking eyes off each other even when she spoke up. She felt more and more like a third-wheel, out of place and redundant. Soon it felt like she was chewing on cardboard. And Finn had a look on his face...

“I'm probably needed elsewhere,” she interjected suddenly, stuffing the last piece into her mouth and dodging out of the room, looking frantically for a different task to do, anywhere else to be.

She hadn't expected to see _him_ again, much less while taking out the trash, but perhaps today was just that kind of day.

The First Order and _Pièce de Résistance_ shared a street corner as well as adjacent dumpster space in the back alleyway.

She'd heard a rustling while hauling the trashbags of stem trimmings and patron's foodwaste and had eagerly turned, hoping to see the orange tabby cat she'd befriended a few months ago. Instead, she found him. And he was mirroring her action, though perhaps with a little more ease.

Something about that made her stood dumb, for the second time that day. But instead of returning her paused gaze in a drawn-out session—not that that had happened before—he looked at her with a question.

“Can I help with you something?” he lilted.

_Ugh._

That was a customer service voice alright. Even without a frame of reference, it felt wrong and strange to be coming out of him. Today was parr for the course of weirdness.

She released the hold on her burden, the heavy bags thumping against the ground near her worn, scuffed up sneakers. Without thinking, she blurted out.

“You were supposed to be older!”

Whatever he was anticipating her saying, it definitely wasn't that. The way his face scrunched in utter bemusement would have been funny if she wasn't wholly distracted by her own creeping blush. She fought the urge to duck her head—why did she always have to put her foot in her mouth?

“I'm...sorry?” he tried.

 _Screw it_. Shame quickly became muddled with other feelings, which was good. _Mad_ was easier anyway. She rounded on him, ignoring how much she had to tilt her neck up just to meet eyes.

“My best friend used to work for you, said it was awful and no one should work in that kind environment,” she jabbed a finger at him, eyes ablaze.

“What does that have to do with my age?” he mused, the damned lilt finally gone. Without that customer service edge, his voice was deep and reverberated into her even at the distance she was at.

“I thought you'd be—I don't know, like sixty. Some grumpy old fart,” she glanced at the trashbag still held in his hand, “Someone who wouldn't bother with tasks like trash when you could just order around a disposable underling to do it.”

At first, he just blinked owlishly at her. And then he moved to continue his task, obscuring his face from view—but she swore she saw a corner of his mouth twitch upwards

“Short of underlings today,” he shrugged as he lifted the full bag with ease into the dumpster.

She felt her brow twisting in confusion. Was that a joke? Did he joke?

She crossed her arms, “Maybe because all the underlings quit.”

“If it helps,” he continued in that impossibly deep voice, “I wasn't in charge while your friend worked with us, that was the previous owner. Who quite resembles your colorful description, actually.”

“And where did he go?”

He shrugged cryptically, “Disappeared. Mysterious circumstances.”

That made her do a double-take. It burned with intrigue, but she humored the question that was closer to the tip of her tongue.

“How do you know who I meant?” she tilted her head.

“Finn, right?” he said, a mask of disinterest shadowed over his face, “I see him come and go, so I figured he was with you now,” he mused for a moment, “His spice cake is missed though.”

That gave her some spiteful satisfaction. Good that they missed the delights of Finn's baked creations. Good that they realized they'd thoughtlessly discarded something so valuable. That they made a mistake. That they regretted it.

If that thought process made her throat close a little and the faint sound of a child crying pass like a ghost across her mind, she didn't notice it. She _didn't_.

“You didn't deserve him anyway,” she mumbled darkly, feeling remarkably like she was picking at a wound that had scabbed over several times.

“Finn quit two months ago. Best friend? You must bond fast.”

That set something off in her. She didn't let her mind catch up before she whirled around and spat, “You don't know _anything_ about me!”

“And you think you know anything about me?”

“Everything that I need to,” she snarled.

And then, the weirdest thing. His face didn't twist into anger, he didn't make a biting retort in return. Instead, he seemed to let the words sink in, his face fell into some resignation.

His eyes, which weren't looking at her anymore, looked almost sad.

“Yeah,” he said lowly, quietly... gently, “You probably do.”

He retreated and disappeared, leaving her alone in the empty space, feeling conflicted and confused.

At the end of her shift, she paused mid-stride to the backdoor, gaze lingering on Finn, who was carefully packing away containers of ingredients and readying his station for tomorrow.

Instead of her usual bid of farewell, she heard her own voice say, “Hey Finn?”

“Yeah, Peanut?”

_Spit it out before you lose your nerve._

“You remember your old boss that you used to tell me about?”

“At First Order? Which one?”

She rifled through her own memories of the countless stories he would eagerly regale to whoever would listen. Ones of a wiry redhead who demanded to-the-thread order, others of an un-seen owner who was the subject of more rumors than the Mariana's Trench.

“The grumpy, moody one.”

He peeked over a freshly-wiped counter to peer curiously at her “What do you want to know?”

She fiddled at the bunch of bright-red flowers clutched in her arms.

_I'd been picturing a thumb-twiddling supervillain this whole time, why didn't you mention he was actually just a man?_

_What's his deal anyway?_

_You didn't say he had a really nice voice._

_What kind of shampoo do you suppose he uses for that hair? It defies known physics.  
_

_Why does he always look so sad?_

“What was his name again?”

“Ben Solo. It's fitting, he's kind of a weird guy. Didn't say a lot and was pretty recluse usually, but when he did, it was typically in an outburst. Like he was just bottling up a bunch of anger.”

She almost nodded in some kind of agreement. She really couldn't say she didn't feel that way sometimes. For all people insisted on attributing her to sunshine, she felt more like a livewire, a broken fuse she covered with layer upon layer of duct tape. But some days, she couldn't keep it covered anymore.

She realized Finn was still talking to her as she was lost in thought.

“Sorry, what?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh, “ _I said_ , did I ever tell you about one of the baristas? Phasma. _Ruthless._ You know _,_ I saw her once slam back seven espresso shots. _Seven._ Completely unphased. The busboys all lived in _fear_...”

\---

She wasn't sure, if she took the trash out again at the same time, if she'd see him again. She wasn't sure if it was a regular habit, and the run-in yesterday could be replicated.

She also wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

But she did. And there he was, hoisting garbage right along with her.

There was a new awkwardness. They both moved in silence at their respective tasks, not sure if the terse air would be broken.

But she did.

“Busy morning?” she tried, eyeing the full commercial-sized trashbags stuffed with disposable cups and lids.

He glanced at her, dark eyes looking surprisingly soft, as if not believing she'd spoken to him at all. Then he shrugged.

“Coffeehouse in a business district, it's insanely crowded right now,” he said a little stiffly. Then he added, quietly, like it was a secret, “Truth be told, I do this to escape for a little while.”

She was hit with the same feeling as yesterday, when Finn told her about his tendency to have outbursts. That feeling of relation.

“I get that.”

How many times could he look at her with surprise?

Or more strangely:

Did she want to find out?

“Ben,” she said suddenly, stopping him from turning and leaving.

And there it was again.

“About yesterday,” she continued, “I'm.. sorry.”

“For what?”

She flitted her gaze around. The alley was one she rarely saw another soul in, and if there were they were usually other employees leaving. No one typically lingered for long.

She shuffled her feet a little under his expectant gaze.

_For a long time you were a faceless character I could project every hurt and anger I felt onto. Maybe that's why I was so surprised when I actually saw you. You weren't the villain I imagined._

_Whether you're a villain at all remains to be seen._

“At the end, my outburst. I may have misattributed some anger I had about another situation. It wasn't for you, and I shouldn't have directed it at you.”

His face softened, and she had to resist the weird urge to reach out and ruffle his hair.

“You shouldn't apologize for how you feel. I didn't realize the comment would be personal, I shouldn't have even said it.”

She shimmied to perch onto a half wall that divided the space, away from the dumpsters. It helped her get some height on him too, this giant of a man.

“I mean, I _don't_ apologize for everything I said,” she remarked, relaxing a little, “I still think Finn had a crappy boss”

He seemed to relax a little, too, “You're not wrong. Everything became a mess around the time Snoke left. We all were overworked and miserable and fighting each other,” he leaned back against the half-wall next to her, “I'm sorry Finn got the brunt end of it.”

She remembered the strange look he had when he talked about him.

“Do you dislike him?” she broached tentatively.

“Not in the way you think.”

That was confusing. She made sure her face let him know that.

He seemed to notice.

“He could leave when I couldn't,” he explained, “I might have resented him a little, for that.”

“And why couldn't you leave?”

He gave her a lopsided smirk.

“Would you believe me if I said that Snoke ran the business as a mafia-style cover-up and I was blackmailed into it?”

Whatever train of thought her brain had been happily trundling along on, it came to a screeching halt. She gawked.

He just gave her a casual little shrug, and that made her burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. Whether it was true or not, he was just being so dryly casual about it.

“Wait,” she giggled, wiping tears from her eyes, “But he's gone now right? You're owner now—“

“Co-owner, unfortunately” he corrected with a grimace.

“So, what, are you the new leader of the caffeine syndicate?”

“God no,” he guffawed dryly, “ _Way_ too much trouble. Imagine trying to wrangle a crime lord and a Karen at the same time—absolute nightmare.”

She dissolved into a fit of giggles at the mental image that produced, and next to her his shoulders shook as he snickered along with her.

\---

The next day, as she clocked out on her lunch break, she made the long arduous 10 foot trek through icy slush into enemy territory.

Before, she had staunchly avoided it, out of solidarity with Finn. And a commitment to boycott bad businesses. But she was compelled now out of curiosity. And other needs she had been denying.

Stepping through the threshold, the interior was... not what she expected. Yet not surprising.

Most coffeehouses tried to furnish their spaces with an air of warmth and coziness. To look the way a hot drink feels. First Order, on the other hand, was leaning more towards a style that she supposed was meant to be minimalist and chic, but felt more harsh and oppressive to her. Everything was dark. Dark was the overwhelming theme. The floors were polished black, the walls were bare save for some minimalist art (and vertical lines... were those light fixtures?), the sofas were dark leather and pointy, not looking remotely comfortable (if it were up to her they'd have a zillion more pillows), and the lighting somehow managed to strike the unholy balance being both too dim and too harsh.

So, style-wise, it was the polar opposite of everything she liked. Which seemed fitting, as the clientele appeared to be snotty business-types. She began to feel out of place, her green apron still tied over her soft grey sweater, but she clenched her jaw as one of those patrons gave her a questioning once-over, refusing to shrink.

She stood in line and spotted him behind the counter, partly obscured by a row of glass cases filled with coffee beans, evidently arranged in order from blonde to medium to dark roast. She wondered it it was functional, or just meant as a sort of decor piece. His eyes finally landed on her, and he did a visible double-take.

At her turn for the counter, she briskly ignored a sour-looking redhaired man and bee-lined straight for him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in almost a laugh.

She was weirdly pleased to hear his normal low-intonations instead of the false lilted voice. She lifted her chin, trying to be cocky.

“Scoping out the competition. Obviously.”

“And?”

She considered, then tilted her head, “Does the competition know what color is? Because it could really use more of it.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Is that all? You came to critique the interior design?”

“Well, no.” she forced her hand to still when she realized she was flexing it nervously. Why was she nervous? “Perhaps some people... purely hypothetically... despite working in a tea shop—not to name any names of course—happen to... actually prefer coffee more. A lot more,” she sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest, “ironically.”

Something passed through his eyes, some kind of lightness. Or maybe just simple amusement. Or it _could_ have been his version of scathing judgment, she still didn't know his face that well.

“Huh,” he let out in a puff of air that made her heart thump a little louder.

Over his shoulder, she saw a toweringly tall blonde with spiky hair and tattoos manning the espresso machine like it was the elixir of life, and she the humble ferryman.

Maybe she was projecting a bit...

“Maybe,” he murmured conspiratorially, and involuntarily she leaned in forward, “Maybe this unnamed person— _whomever_ they may be—would find it funny to learn that some, let them also remain anonymous, despite being co-manager of an actual coffeehouse, really prefer tea themselves.”

She gaped.

“You're kidding.”

He retained an air of nonchalance as he straightened back up. She couldn't keep the toothy grin off her face.

“That's _so_ stupid,” she giggled, “Way stupider than me, _you_ actually run this place.”

“Hey—anonymous, remember?” his eyes shone in a certain way, and his face was relaxed in a way she hadn't seen before, “The traitor here could be Hux, too.”

He gestured to the sour redhead, who perked up upon catching the sound of his name. Armitage Hux, with his haughty preening and reputation for terrorizing employees with the strictest of rules, she'd definitely heard stories about at length from Finn.

Rey shook her head, “Doubt it.” Her eyes returned to Ben's and scanned over every detail of this new countenance, as if it was as new of a reveal as when she first saw it uncovered. At this proximity, she could see the clusters of moles across his face. His mouth, the weirdly full lips, were quirked in that half-smile, and she swore she could see the impression of dimples.

In this moment, he looked... lighter somehow.

The man named Hux decided it was a time convenient to interject, “Is there a problem?”

The unwelcome gravelly-nasally voice cut through her daze, and it was like breaking a spell. She didn't realize how much she'd been staring at his face. And then worse—the relaxed, light expression was disappearing, as if a shroud was being pulled over it to hide it away. That humor was abruptly gone—the previous glint in his eye had fled—his brow was steeled and jaw tensed as he surveyed the (very slightly) shorter man with unbidden contempt.

She couldn't help but mirror the sentiment, thrown at the sense of loss she felt at the fleeing expression. How much she wanted it back.

“Everything is fine, Armitage. Go away,” Ben grumbled lowly.

“You seem distracted. Remember, we sell beverages, not conversations,” Hux warned.

She felt ignored in whatever charged tension this was, which incited her more than a little.

“Conversation is nice, but I actually came in here for a coffee,” she interjected loudly, pointedly.

Hux turned to her, as if he forgot she was there. His eyes flicked down to her shoes and back up again.

“Of course,” he said mildly to her. The tone itself was neutral, but she couldn't shake the feeling of condescension, “Solo can help you with that,” his voice lowered again, “and hopefully he'll remember there are other customers as well.”

Rey suddenly became aware of the growing line behind her. She felt her face heating up again.

“Yes, there are,” Ben shot back, “So why don't you actually put an apron on, and help?”

Hux just slinked past him without responding.

Ben looked tired, impossibly so within just the past few minutes, as he looked back up at her.

“I'm sorry.”

She noticed a twitch in his hand, before it stopped itself. She had half-expected him to run his hand through his hair. She could imagine that being his nervous habit. And he almost looked nervous, the way he was looking at her. But she still wasn't sure.

“You're fine,” she whispered.

Maybe it was the shroud, but something in his expression became cryptic and she couldn't decipher what it meant.

His face was incredibly expressive, she'd learned. But it was in a confusing way. She knew when an emotion crept onto his face, but she always couldn't connect which one it was. His taciturn nature didn't help much on that front. But she was learning, little by little.

“What can I get you?” he lilted.

 _A wet rag to smack Hux in the face with,_ she thought woefully.

“Caramel macchiato, with an extra shot.”

“Espresso?”

“Syrup.”

His eyes widened a fraction, “that's going to be really sweet,” he whispered to her.

She rolled her eyes.

“I like coffee, but I also like things to taste good,” she grumbled, “The world is already bitter and dark.”

That shook a startled snort out of him.

“Alright, alright,” he surrendered, tapping out buttons on the register, grabbing a cup from a stack.

The pen in his hand paused over the surface of the paper cup.

“Your name?” he asked lightly, not meeting her eyes for some reason. Was that a tinge of red on the tips of his ears?

“Rey,” she said, “Like 'Ray of sunlight' but with an e,” she rattled off, trying not to roll her eyes at the tired comparison.

It wasn't a bad comparison, really, it just got a little old when strangers constantly ascribed it to her. And she just never thought of herself as being particularly sunny.

But as she watched his pen carefully glide in more swoops and swirls than she thought could possibly adorn the three simple letters, she thought that perhaps it wasn't such a bad name after all.

As she left, her splurged prize in hand with her name literally written on it (in the most beautiful script she had ever seen), she decided that noticing his eyes were the color of coffee was a very very stupid thing indeed.

That night she left work, backdoor shutting behind her, she noticed something different in the outline of shadows. Something small was propped against the half-wall she would often perch herself on as they bantered in their secret space. It was a bag. Taking it in hand, she realized it was a bag of coffee beans, undoubtedly meant for her: her name written with that same ornate script as earlier.

As she walked to her car, she felt warmed in her chest, in a way that had nothing to do with her soft grey sweater.

\---

She waited in the alley, a little nervously, eagerly sapping the warmth that bled from the paper cup in her hands.

She was banking again on coincidence here. They'd never arranged to meet out at the same time everyday, it just happened. So it was entirely possible that he wouldn't show up today, on this particular mid-morning.

She really hoped he did show up though, she did _not_ want to have to drink this cup of nastiness.

But she would drink it, if it came between that and throwing it out.

Tea was fine. Tea was... okay. _Some_ teas. Black tea was the most acceptable, with some doctoring in the form of sugar and milk. White tea was pretty good. Herbal teas were... less fine. Anything with fennel in it was unspeakably nasty, with their licorice-tasting blasphemy.

But the most vile of all teas was green tea. It was about as pleasant as licking grass. At least to her. So she went on a bit of a hunch and figured that it might very likely be Ben's favorite.

She let out an audible sigh of relief as he emerged through the door.

“Here, I...”

She trailed off, looking in a distorted mirror as she realized Ben was holding his own paper cup out towards her.

“Macchiato. Extra shot of syrup,” he said. Was it shyly?

Her heart thrummed. In anticipation of caffeine. Obviously.

“Here,” she continued awkwardly, “Tea. Jasmine Green, seemed appropriate... or something. Hope that's good.”

“It's not a bad guess.”

She really wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

“I sweetened it a little,” she admitted.

“Did you?”

“Yeah, you could use it. Sweeten you up a little, maybe.”

The line felt stupid now as she took the coffee from his hands. Why did she think it'd be clever and quippy?

He gave a lip-quirk at her—probably out of pity. The silence hung.

She looked at the cup in her hands.

“Not the logo'd ones?” she asked, “That's good actually. Do you know what they said yesterday when I came back in with it?”

“What?”

“To stop fraternizing with the enemy.”

Poe had not been terribly pleased with his employee's tryst with their neighboring business rivals.

“Which I'm not,” she said with finality, sipping carefully at the burning hot liquid cupped within her fingers.

“What's this then?” he asked vaguely.

She paused. Did he mean the drinks, or..? “I haven't decided yet.”

He nodded, his shoulder possibly sagging slightly.

“I thought about that after you left. The cup thing. I um...” he actually looked bashful, “I got a sleeve of generic cups, just in case.”

Something in her chest swelled a little. Which seemed to be happening a lot around him.

“Your old manager. Mr. 'Mysterious Circumstances.' How tall was he?” she asked after she coaxed the last drops of the now-cooled liquid out of the cup.

“I don't know, taller than me,” he ignored the look of shock that Rey knew was on her face, because _how_ , “Why?”

“Do you guys have a height requirement or something?” she stood on her tip-toes and lifted an arm as some kind of charade demonstration, “Like, 'must be this tall to ride this workplace.'”

He smiled. Maybe it was his full smile? She still wasn't sure, her data was still very limited. But she'd love to find out.


	2. we'd all be alone

Cats seemed to have a sixth sense for when and where there was pandemonium. For reasons unknown, they were creatures keenly adapted to zero-in on the time and place ripe for human chaos, and if not to create it, then to increase it.

So, on Thursday, when they were all already running over each other to prepare for the event that day, she shouldn't have been surprised to see a blur of white and orange zooming in underfoot from outside.

“BB, no!”

Finn, with a boisterous “nope,” immediately hopped onto the counter away from the flying feline.

Kaydel and Rey weren't so lucky. One (or both) of them had a foot displaced to not step on the cat, but in doing so they lost their balance and both ended up thudding heavily onto the floor.

Rose, abandoning her task of making decorative arrangements, instead tried to catch him, but he zoomed out of her reach and into a rolling cart, knocking over a box of ribbons and twine, which then trapped him like a net.

Rey darted up and brushed away the supplies, leaving just a fluffy white cat with orange patches looking slightly dazed, but now a bit calmer. His big eyes blinked up at her, innocently.

“Are you done?” she asked, as he trilled at her. She picked him up.

Poe poked his head in, probably to see what the noise was, but then lit up as he saw the purring culprit.

“Buddy!” Poe exclaimed, reaching out to give head scritches to the pleased-looking ball of fur settled in her arms, “How's my favorite pest controller?”

“Hi lil dummy,” Rose smiled as she approached to give additional pets to a now very blissed-out cat, “Finn, come say hi to him.”

“Nuh-huh,” Finn shook his head, still at a distance across the room, “That thing has claws and can swat. I've still got the scars to prove it,” he accused, gesturing at his shin.

“That was one time,” Rey said, indignant, “He was just scared, you were waving a broom at him.”

“I was trying to shoo him out. You think he's innocent, but he's a pastry thief, look at that guilty face!”

BB just beeped, eliciting cooing _aww_ s from the room's occupants, and a defeated sigh from Finn.

Poe finally broke away from the crowd, clapping his hands in the air for attention, “Alright! Break time over people, Leia will be here within a few hours, let's finish setting up!”

\- - -

Leia Organa, prominent local government figure, had commissioned _Pièce de Résistance_ as the venue for a casual meet and greet event with the public in her run for senator in the next election.

She seemed nice enough, Rey thought, watching the woman make niceties and nod along in polite conversation from across the room. She had a regal air, her graying hair wrapped in an intricate updo and her wardrobe crisp and clean to the thread.

It almost made Rey self-conscious, herself simply in a (used) flowy white blouse that had seen better days, her apron absent as Poe had encouraged them to mingle along. _Let's take this opportunity to be good citizens_ , he'd said, _we're part of the public too._

Which was a nice thought, but Rey didn't mingle. Or, she didn't like to, because she never felt very good at it—it was difficult for her to relate with people, she found. Or, she just didn't feel comfortable in these crowded situations. It was probably closer to a combination of both.

She sipped on her cranberry-rosebud punch, shuffling around in her quiet corner removed from the cluster. She decided the compromise for her presence here would be remaining helpful; by refilling drink dispensers or scone trays when needed, sneaking off into the backroom to “clear away empty trays” and take a secret breather, then come back. Being able to focus on a task that wasn't just chatting around helped a little.

Seeing Rose and Finn laughing in a conversation, and feeling a familiar pang, she'd just begun to rally up the willpower to break in and socialize, when Leia glanced her way, and gave her a soft smile.

It was like something plucking a string in the back of her mind, like there was a connection that her subconscious made that her higher brain hadn't caught up to yet. It threw her so much, that she didn't notice someone walking too close to her.

She had to suppress a curse as her jostled hand tipped and splashed the deep red liquid all over her shirt.

Quickly slinking off into the backroom, she spent about 15 minutes just trying to wipe away the magenta stain to no use, frustration and other emotions bubbling up against her will, when she heard Finn approach her.

“Spill something?”

“Finn!” she whirled around, stamping down the unwanted emotions and clamping her hands onto his shoulders, “Finn, my dear extroverted friend, please help me.”

He chuckled and patted her hands, “You'll be alright, it's just a little function.”

“Yeah,” she nodded along, trying hard to embody the ease she did not feel.

“Are you okay?” he asked earnestly.

“I'm just...” she deflated, “Overwhelmed.”

Finn gave her a sympathetic smile and a gentle squeeze on her arm.

“You'll be fine, just stick by Rose and me. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to, just laugh every once in a while after one of my winning jokes.”

She gave a weak chuckle.

Following him back out, she grabbed her jacket off the rack and zipped it up over her stain, hoping no one would notice or care that she was wearing it in inside.

Hours later, the ordeal was finally over and she'd survived. The resulting mess was finally almost cleaned up and she'd even scored a remaining _tidbit tray_ , as Poe had called it, which helped to brighten her tumultuous mood.

“Some little finger foods left, they're still good, but I can't do anything with them,” he'd said, and she'd taken it, eyeing the sliced meats and knowing just the certain little someone who'd appreciate them.

Walking out the back door, she was surprised and pleased to see not just the intended furry recipient, but her dark-haired alley-mate as well.

BB was sitting and staring up at Ben, unblinkingly. He was sat, as Rey fondly dubbed, in his perfect 'snowman physique', looking like two round blobs stacked on top of each other.

BB of course, not Ben. She'd say Ben's physique was more... redwood-like.

She zipped open her jacket, displaying her stain as a badge of shame.

“Never wear white,” she announced to him with a sigh, “Impossible to keep clean.”

The odd pair pair meanwhile continued their staring contest.

“Sorry, I didn't bring a tea this time, but I'm having difficulty with gravity today and I probably would have just ended up wearing it, too,” she plucked a triangular piece of cheese off the plastic tray and popped it in her mouth.

There still wasn't a peep from either feline or human.

She hovered the plastic tray between them.

“I brought snacks,” she entreated.

He blinked at the assortment of meats, cheeses, and pickled vegetables in his face. BB blinked slowly, perhaps silently gloating on his victory.

“These from the event?” he asked, before finally grabbing an olive.

“Yeah,” she chewed another piece of cheese, “How did you know?”

He dodged the question.

“Did you swipe it?”

“Rude. I prefer 'opportunist',” she huffed a little, “The event is over, and this was left. No one wants it, so I take it. It doesn't get wasted, and I get snacks.”

A little trill made her look downwards, at BB who was now staring up at her, eyes begging.

She folded up a little slice of salami and offered it to him. He took the offering with a hearty chew.

“This one's the swiper here,” she said fondly, folding another piece, “First met him right after I started working here, when he snuck in through the back door and snatched an apple fritter from the kitchen,” she lifted a finger and quirked her head, “For which Finn still hasn't forgiven him.”

Ben paused, an olive halfway to his mouth.

“The cat... stole a fritter?”

They ate their impromptu snack while sitting on their half-wall, like a ridiculous two-person plus one-cat picnic.

“Have you met him?” she asked, “We call him BB.”

She held out one of those tiny pickles to him to see if he'd eat it, but BB just sniffed it derisively.

“I've... met the cat. I mean, I _have_ seen him around,” he held out his hand to BB to let him sniff it tentatively, which he did, then pushed his face against it, silently demanding scratches.

“BB?” he said, obliging him, “Does it stand for something?”

She shrugged, “Depends on who you ask. To me, it's Baby Boy,” she joined in on the cat-attentions, scratching the spot by his cheek, which made him coil and purr loudly.

“Poe favors Buddy Boy. He's liked him ever since he found and hunted a mouse down in the backroom. If you ask Finn, he'd probably say it stood for Bad Bastard, for the already aforementioned reasons,” she smiled.

She glanced at Ben, hoping it might make him smile a bit too. She tried not to deflate too much when he didn't.

When they were about done with the tray, only a few crackers and tiny pickles left, he finally spoke again.

“So how was it?” Ben said suddenly, “The... whatever they had.”

“Oh, fine I guess,” Rey lied, setting the tray aside, “We provided the tea and snacks, Organa did most of the meet and chat with the locals.”

“Kind of a win-win-win,” she continued, “We sell more merchandise and maybe get new customers, politician gets exposure, people feel seen and listened to by their candidate. It's all great.”

He suddenly got a sour look on his face, “Kind of feels like bribing voters with free stuff.”

“I guess, if you want to be cynical,” Rey said stiffly.

Then she said, “You guys should try it. Have a cultural event, I mean, maybe attract a more varied customer base,” she thought back to the cookie-cutter business folks that wore pretentiousness like a blasé scarf.

“I'd like to stay out of politics.”

She sighed, “It doesn't have to a political thing. We do tea and paint nights pretty regularly. Something like that. Community amenity. You know. Fun.”

He went quiet again, and she hoped it was because he was considering her suggestion. He seemed to be weighing something.

“How was she?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Who?”

“Leia.”

Her eyebrows raised a little bit. Was he thinking about voting for her? “She seemed... ok. She was well-spoken and got along with—”

“No, I mean,” he interrupted, and she thought something sad appeared in his eyes, “Did she seem well? Is she doing ok?”

Definitely confused, she tried to answer that, “I suppose, yeah, she looked like she was in good health.” she eyed him, “ _Why_?”

He was grappling with something, his hands clasping and unclasping over and over, before he decided upon it. She bit on a cracker to try to distract from the awkward pause.

“She is my mother.”

Cracker bits went flying out of her mouth, and he startled at her outburst.

“Dude, _what_?” she choked, “That's—she's your mom?!”

Then she realized something, and grabbed his arm, pulling him up—displacing BB who, with a displeased chirp, slunk off—and along with her.

“I think she's still in there talking to Maz,” she babbled, trying to yank on his arm but it was like trying to haul a boulder, “We can go in, and you can say hi, and—”

“Rey,” he said, dark eyes shining with something unseen and inscrutable, “I can't go see her.”

She halted, feeling something within her break. Just a little. A single crack. Like the first drive of an icepick into a forbidden place deep within her.

“Why?”

Maybe her eyes were shining with that something too, as she looked back at him, the whole world feeling halted, as he freed his hand from her unfeeling grasp.

He looked blank, in everything but his damned eyes, “She and I... we don't have a good relationship, not since I was young. I don't want to see her. I _know_ she doesn't want to see me.”

“ _Why_?”

Rey hadn't meant for her voice to break as much as it did.

She blinked, and then twice more; in her vision, he looked more like a big dark blob than the surly, sarcastic, somehow weirdly sweet person she'd been talking too. Almost looking like faceless shade she'd used to think of him as, the old proxy to direct every hurt and resentment she'd ever felt. But now that the faceless man was gone, those feelings were left homeless, nowhere to go but still left in her head. She wasn't sure anymore where to pour them to.

_You could see your mother. She's just in there. This could make everything alright, somehow._

“It's not that simple,” he said, heavily. Darkly. Tiredly. Looking like a shade and a sad child at the same time.

She didn't realize she'd said that out loud.

She didn't know why he turned to walk away suddenly. She only knew that the echoes of a little girl crying swelled in her head as she saw his back hastily retreating down the alley, away from her.

And for a moment, she hated him too.

It took two separate turns to get the engine roaring to life, but she was too preoccupied with keeping her emotions contained to really notice it. She had to make it at least until she got home, she couldn't drive with watery eyes.

It felt like trying to hold back a flowing stream with her hands, impossible to keep the water from running right through her fingers, but she managed. Barely.

At least right until she stepped through her door, shutting it firmly behind her. Then the tears came.

She couldn't pinpoint a single reason why, it was more a chaotic mess of many different things.

It was like a dam finally succumbing to the cracks and breaking open. A sob broke through. Then another, then she just let it. She was lying in her bed before she realized it.

At first, she cried for loneliness. For feeling isolated even among friends, for feeling foreign in a crowd. Unseen. Out of place. Alone with only herself for as long as she could recall. Honed by hardship and bitter self-reliance.

She cried because the thought of _parents_ had resurfaced the shadows she tried _so hard_ to keep hidden. She only ever had herself to rely on, because she was abandoned by people she couldn't really remember.

She knew they were dead, something that had been confirmed to her recently by a man she hoped to never see again. But had they been alive? Had it been her own mother just across a door? She would have gone, she would have talked to her. She would have banked on the belief—on the naive _hope_ that she had a satisfying explanation—that it _would_ make everything better. Somehow.

_It's not that simple._

She punched her damp pillow.

Sometimes, she dreamt of them. They always took different shapes. Sometimes, they were people who loved her, only gave her up because they had to. Sometimes, they were drunkards, discarding her as the awful obstacle to their next high; throwing her out like the garbage she was. Sometimes they were just dark ghosts with no names or faces, looming over her and she screamed at them.

Sometimes, her dreams were just her. Sometimes, she was held, by strong arms that surrounded her in a love felt, but out of reach. Those were when she woke up crying.

She fell asleep like that, eventually, when her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen and no more tears would come. Her mind was finally quiet and she imagined being held by strong arms.

When she woke up again, her head was pounding protests and her throat was so, so dry. It took her awhile to recollect things. She had fallen asleep in her clothes, still wearing the red-stained shirt.

Patchy sunlight was filtering in through her window...

 _Shit,_ she'd fallen asleep without charging her phone so her alarm hadn't sounded.

 _Shit,_ she'd overslept and was already very late to work and she was a tumble, tripping over herself just to find unstained clothes and get out the door.

It took three turns to get her sad rust bucket coaxed to life, but she was in too much of a frantic hurry to pay it any mind.

She groaned on the tenth try, hearing the the rumble as the engine turned and then died out with a groan that sounded like a tired wheeze.

Her ancient used-car was a complete lemon, but it had been an affordable one, which was the only criteria she was able to accommodate. She always suspected that with her luck it would putz out at the worst time just to spite her.

She just didn't think it would be today—or tonight, rather. While it was snowing again. And her phone was very much dead.

As self-placation, she gave herself exactly 10 minutes to bonk her head against the steering wheel and curse the malevolent universe and feel sorry for herself.

She should have gone with Finn and Rose. But after last night, and after going through today feeling like a walking zombie, she was just too drained.

The 10 minutes were up too quickly, as they always were. And the cold was beginning to seep in to her bones.

With a great heaving sigh she hoped reached some god or Zeus or force of nature out there or whatever, she hauled herself out of the car and stalked back to the flower shop.

She'd almost made it, before her stomp was abruptly halted.

“Rey? What are you still doing here?”

Her head almost sunk at the familiar deep voice.

They hadn't met at their usual time that day. She hadn't wanted to see him, honestly, so she didn't go out into their alley. She had still felt hurt about yesterday, but not in a way she could parse into words, even if she possessed the energy to do so, so she'd taken the easy way of simply avoiding him.

But she was tired beyond caring now, so she answered without turning.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she said, possibly more petulant than she wanted to admit.

“I was... looking into something. For the business. Just locked up,” he answered, “And you?” She wasn't looking at his face, but it sounded like he was being careful, tentative with her.

She sighed.

“Friday night, you know,” she shrugged, “coworkers wanted to go out and get drinks. I didn't, so I offered to stay to clean and lock up. But my car's borked and my phone's dead, so I'm going back in to use the one in the shop,” she explained blandly.

She gave in and stole a look at him. He was poised to leave as she was returning. The coat he wore was much shorter than the sweeping one from before. Still black though, with black slacks, and black shoes.

She had to give a little credit, the man certainly picked a theme and stuck to it.

The thing that gave her pause was his face. His eyes seemed more sunken, and the skin under his eyes were darkened almost like bruises.

He almost looked like his night was as fraught as hers was...

“What's wrong?” he broke through her reverie.

Could she ever just look at him without getting lost in thought? Maybe the cold was getting to her.

“Sorry?”

“The car—what's wrong with it?” he repeated.

“It's stupid. And it won't start,” she said sullenly. Her teeth were beginning to chatter and she was losing patience.

She figured as far that it probably wasn't an issue with the battery, despite her first thought. That probably wouldn't have allowed the engine to still start on ignition. It turned over, but it wouldn't stay on.

“Let me look at it.”

She frowned in disdain.

“What, because you must know cars better than me? I'm a woman, so I can't know anything about mechanics?”

“I don't doubt that you do,” he said with surprising earnestness, eyebrows drawn, “But I do, too. Sometimes it just helps to get another viewpoint on a problem.”

She gave him a skeptical once-over, a sweeping pass over all his upstart attitude and his high-profile mother and nice shoes and wondered if he really did know an exhaust pipe from a fuel line.

“Fine,” she relented.

Ten minutes later, they were both head-deep into the guts of her beater car.

“Maybe it's the battery?” Ben had asked as he lifted the hood.

She shook her head, “Already ruled that out. Dashboard still lights up fine, and it still manages to turn over on ignition, it just kaputs after that.”

He glanced at the bulky cube, “No corrosion,” he murmured, “Connections okay?”

“I check them every time I change my oil,” she mumbled.

Little flurries began to lazily flutter down to earth. She really hoped this would be the last snow of the season. She had to suppress a shiver, and squash down the urge to move in closer to the massive body near her, radiating so much warmth.

They made preliminary checks of every other visible part.

It had only been one day, but she had to admit that she had missed the weird ease of their interactions.

And he was proving her wrong. He seemed to know his way around the inside of a car. Moreover, he hadn't been as condescending as she'd expected, the way most men she'd ever had to interact with in a garage were. He hadn't talked down to her, hadn't asked her stupid questions—like if she actually put fuel in her tank (which she did, as stupidly expensive as it was).

Fuel...

“Fuel pump,” they said suddenly, at the time, she straightened up to look at him.

She blinked. A few snowflakes had caught in his dark curls.

He looked pretty, in the snow.

“Or the ignition coil,” she added hastily, breaking the eye contact, “Either way, not fixable with just a jumper cable.”

“Tow?” he suggested.

“At this hour? Nothing's open right now. Honestly, I just want to get home and deal with this tomorrow.” She was cold and tired, and really needed some blissful unconsciousness under a million blankets.

He hesitated, “I can drop you off,” he looked shy again, “If you want.”

She had to pause. The sensible Rey, tiny presence though it was in her mind, reminded her that being the subject of the newest True Crime documentary was _not_ on her bucket list. And that she'd only known this man for about a week—and could secret chats by the dumpsters count as _knowing_ , even with the addition of swapping beverage contraband?

And what she knew about him was limited. His humor was dry, he and his mother weren't on speaking terms, he may or may not be (used to be?) involved in shady business stuff, and he might have dimples.

A lot to gamble on just possible dimples...

Then again, she thought to herself, his mother _was_ a high profile politician. If she did get kidnapped, at least she'd be part of one interesting headline.

Dark truth be told, she'd already been in bad situations. Plus, running hapless into half-baked plans was unfortunately a little too close to her M.O.

And, damn practicality, she was tight on cash and it would save her an Uber trip that she'd have to call on his phone anyway.

_Screw it._

“Alright,” she closed the hood of the car with a _thunk_ , “fine.”

“That one's yours?” she pointed to the shiny black sedan.

“Yeah, why?”

She gave her most pointed look at him. Then at the car. Then back to him. Once more for good measure.

“What?”

She held back a scoff.

“I can guess your favorite color,” she deadpanned.

His face did the scrunching thing as she walked around to the passengers side, and pulled the door open.

“Actually, it's blue,” he lobbed at her over the top of the hood.

Her responding _pfft_ was so forceful, that for a mortifying moment she thought she spit. _Good job, Rey. Spit in the prim man's prim car. Classy._

“So why the black get up?” she posed, seating herself, “And the matching black car. And the _black_ workplace interior?”

“I didn't have control over that.”

“You do _now_ ,” she reminded him, then stopped to squint at him, “Do you dye your hair, by chance?”

He rolled his eyes and started up the car, which gave a pleasant hum, radio coming back to life in a hushed murmur. Who figured a car could start up without sounding asthmatic? Wonder of wonders.

Her toes curled with delight at the feeling of the heater blasting blessed warmth at her.

“Black goes with everything,” he defended, placing his hand on the back of her seat to twist around as he backed out.

Her brain almost shorted at the giant hand inches from her face.

“Yeah,” she managed, too close to a squeak for her taste, “with the black everything else you own.”

Their eyes met again for a moment, and her pulse quickened to see that mirthful lightness in his eyes.

She looked away, even though her nerves were practically screaming, _Touch the pretty man._

A few minutes and street turns later, she was pretty sure she'd twiddled the last of it out of her fingers and was seeking a reprieve from the quietness. She remembered the near-muted radio, and began shuffling through songs.

“I bet I'll find _Black_ Sabbath on here,” she winked.

He shook his head indulgently, “Shut up.”

She grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.


End file.
